A Jealous John
by ZombieVampireAuthor
Summary: When John finds out Sherlock has a girlfriend, he's not bothered by it at all. Nope, not one bit. Sherlock, however, seems to think that it does and he's going to prove something to Watson, even if he has to use extreme measures. Rated M for inappropriate things ;) I do not own BBC Sherlock all rights reserved. This is just 1 of a bunch of dirty oneshots for my girlfriend. Enjoy!


It didn't bug John. Really, it didn't. It was perfectly fine for Sherlock to have a girlfriend-it's the same as when John had a date for the night and Sherlock didn't, only the roles were reversed. John was the one alone, and Sherlock had a date.

But that was the thing. The words "Sherlock" and "date" did not seem to fit well together. Especially not coming home to find the woman half naked in Sherlock's room.

It didn't bother John. He just...would've preferred if Sherlock had told him. Or mentioned it. Or warned him.

After that happened this morning, John really tried to let it go through the day. The case they were working on was serious, people's lives were on the line. He didn't need to be thinking about who that girl was, or when they started dating or how Sherlock even got a girlfriend-Christ, were they sleeping together already?

But then why would she stay the night if they weren't?

That didn't matter. It was Sherlock's business, not his.

But he was staying in the same bloody flat-

"John."

The blonde almost jumped out of his skin. Sherlock was already standing out of the taxi, door open and peering inside at him. Behind him was the door of their flat. They were home already?

"S-Sorry."

John climbed out immediately and paid the cabbie since Sherlock never did. On the way up the stairs, he glanced at his watch. Five already. Sweet lord, he had been thinking about it all day. Well, he was just curious, right? Sherlock was his...his _friend_ after all. Mates talk about these things. Sherlock was Sherlock, of course, but still a man.

"So, uh, when did you...start seeing her?"

It wasn't until Sherlock stopped in the living room that made John realize how stupid he sounded. He had to ask that sort of question the second they walked in the door? If anything, he should be asking about the case, not the bloody woman he found in Sherlock's bed this morning.

He tried to shake off the embarrassment. "I-I mean, you never mentioned her, so..."

"I know." Sherlock continued to stare at John for a long moment, then he finally stripped his coat and threw it on the chair. He said nothing more.

The question lingered in the air, nagging at the back of John's mind. It didn't bother him. He was just curious. Maybe trying to have a normal conversation with Sherlock for once.

"So...how long?"

"A month."

John almost had to ask him to repeat himself. "A whole month?"

Sherlock finally looked back at him, loosening the cuffs on his sleeves. "Yes, John, a whole thirty days-Do come in. Or at least close the door behind you."

John felt the embarrassement tighten in his gut at the realization that he was still standing in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, coat around his arm. Quickly, he closed it and hung the jacket in the closet. It was far more difficult than normal, mainly because his hands were shaking.

Why was he nervous? He had no reason to be nervous right now.

"Uh, oh, okay. Well...She was, uh... She was one of Lestrade's friends, wasn't she? From that party-"

"Yes."

"Oh ok. So, uh, how is she?"

Uh Oh. That came out wrong. Too insuiating-too rash. As if he was asking about her bed, not in general. John was stuttering on himself before Sherlock could even glance his way. "I-I-Uh-I mean, how is she doing-like, who is she? Why is she, uh..."

Sherlock had finally taken a seat in the kitchen, leaving John in the archway of the living room. He studied the blonde very carefully for a moment, then spoke quickly. "She's a scientist at the Correction Center downtown. Smarter than she looks, really."

The silence ate at John worse than it ever did in Afghanastan. He tried to push passed it. He even went into the fridge and grabbed something to drink. In the end, he closed the door without grabbing anything. He should ask about dinner or the case or anything stupid that Sherlock might have planned with this girl.

"Are you going to tell me her name?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the files in his hands. "Christine."

"Ah, pretty... Have you slept with her?"

John hardly relaized he had asked the question, but he heard it-heard himself-and immediately backed off. " You know? Nevermind, I'm sorry. I'm practically interrogating you. I'm happy for you-"

"Why do you want to know so bad?"

Sherlock was on his feet now, staring at John from across the tiny kitchen table. Did the kitchen seem smaller now or was it just John?

He almost couldn't find the words to speak. "I don't. I was just curious-You are my-I don't care. Ok? I don't care if you did. She's your girlfriend, end of story. It's not my business if you slept with her or not-"

"And if I had?" The question was pressed, making something in John constrict, almost painfully.

"What?"

"If I had slept with her, what would you say?"

John was surprised with how long it took himself to answer. "Well, then good for you... Look Sherlock, I really-_really_-don't care. It doesn't bother me one-"

"John."

It was all in Sherlock's tone. The fact that he raised his hand to John's level had nothing to do with it. The way he called his name, with enough confidence and support to suppress John's rambling immediately was more than enough to stop John midsentence. John let whatever was left to say die off on his tongue and as he stood there, too soon he realized he had no idea what he was saying in the first place. Mindless ranting.

Sherlock was already around the table-John didn't know when he had walked around it, but he was before him, towering over him in the small space between the table and the fridge. Sherlock's dark gaze held him there, trapped between the fridge and the counter. In all honesty, John couldn't look away from it. So sharp, so fierce, they pierced him like a spear, going clean through him, capturing him without any chance of escaping. He said nothing, and neither did John and it made the blonde suddenly realize how small the world had become. So silent, so dark in this kitchen, too warm from this close together. All of their previous conversation has dissapated completely, leaving John baffled with his own emotions, dangling on Sherlock's gaze alone.

Inside John was battling many things. He wasn't jealous. He was just really shocked about Sherlock's new girlfriend-it didn't bother him. Well, it would if she came over again-or if he saw them kiss. Or to know that they'd shagged-Jesus, the heated anger was pooling into his stomach, only to be dowsed with doubt and fear and confusion and God, if only he could tell what was going on in that fat brain of his-like why he wasn't saying anything, why hadn't he told John he had a girlfriend-why couldn't he just give him a straight answer instead of having to deduce everything into a game?

As if two steps ahead of him, Sherlock's hand gently pressed forward, landing on John's chest. It was a slow movement, very soft, but the touch felt like fire through John's sweater. He didn't understand why, and really John didn't want to understand. He was already confused enough-to be held here, being hollowed out whole with those eyes alone in pure silence was only making it worse.

Still, John said nothing against it. Nor did he even think of taking Sherlock's hand away. There was really no _need_ to smack his hand away at a moment like this. It just didn't feel right. Then the hand slowly dragged down his chest, pressing firmer against him so John could really feel it through his clothes.

The heat in his stomach became more noticeable then. Actually in the whole room. Everything felt too shallow, the air shrinking and heating to a very uncomfortable state. John's pace had quickened before he could fully realize why.

That's when Sherlock's hand slipped under John's sweater, the cool touch of his fingers being a delightful shock against John's warmer skin. They slid up his chest fast, causing John to gasp. The slight pressure behind the motion caused John to lean back into the fridge, the handle pressing into the small of his back. Before he could protest, he found Sherlock's other hand carassing his side, squeezing gently, his thumb rubbing in circles over the exposed hip bone. The thrill from that made something in John cinch-up instantly, and the excitment sunk his gut to his toes.

That heat wasn't anger. It was **arousal**.

Sherlock was closer-when had he moved closer? He was literally pressed against John, the only space being enough room for Sherlock to have his hands on him between them. His legs were twined with John's, pressed together up to the hips where their chests were barely seperated, and their faces-

Sherlock was so close, John could feel the heat of his breath on his own nose.

Those dark eyes had never left his face, John realized. Too many things were happening inside John for him to keep track of. Yet, he felt dizzy from that thought, and the constant rub of Sherlock's thumb over that spot on his hip made all common sense flee far from sight. The detective's other hand was doing a small motion as well, rubbing up and down John's breast, just barely, more like messaging that single spot, his wrist digging into John's nipple. John fought the excitement that arised from that.

As if recovering from a long zoned out moment, John finally blinked and realized he was still mid-staring contest with Sherlock. Still, nothing was said and John realized words weren't necessary because those eyes-those dark piercing eyes were saying a million things at once.

Determination.

Deduction.

Desire.

It was all confirmed when Sherlock's lower hand snagged the front of John's pants.

Reality slapped at John like a splash of ice water.

"Sh-Sherlock-" He was cut off by Sherlock crushing his lips against his own.

Quicker than a snake, Sherlock had his other hand on the back of John's head, pulling him forward as he dove in. He kissed him suddenly, _aggressively_. He wasted no time on this first kiss and shoved his tongue right passed John's unsuspecting lips.

Of course the blonde flinched. His hands snapped upon Sherlock's in an instant, but after grabbing them his motive to push Sherlock away fell short. The strength died away-no, it was more like the motivation to throw them away just burned out, too soon. John could only stand there, half in shock, half feeling something he dared not name, and allowed the man to kiss him; felt the way his lips were so soft compared to his own, how smooth his tongue felt as it rolled over his teeth, the shivers that inevitably coursed through his viens from the sensation.

To be fair, this wasn't John's first kiss with a man. Years in the army left everyone a little curious in the end, but nothing beyond this. Mere touches, mere pecks on the lips-

But this was Sherlock. Everything about it was different.

Especially when his hand dug under his waistline, through the difficulty of John's belt, and curled those long fingers over John's crotch. The shock of that was like a strike of lightening through John's body.

He jumped immediately, landing on the tips of his toes. Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock pressed himself against John harder, firmly pinning him against the door of the fridge. His hand tightened on John, feeling the buldge almost immediately. Sherlock swallowed the surprised whimpers and frantic attempts of denial and silence with ease. Sherlock immediately played John like his violin, a simple press of his fingers, a slight shift on the length, and the results were beautiful. Little flinches, big jumps, deepened breathing through the nose, muscles tightening instantly-so delicious.

It was feeling John grow in his hand, forming a full buldge in his pants, that proved to Sherlock that John had given in. The blonde's hands came off of his and were on Sherlock's face like a clamp. He turned Sherlock's head the other way, then his tongue was in Sherlock's mouth. He caught up to Sherlock's pace quickly, and soon their tongues were battling for dominance between their teeth.

No, it wasn't just submission. John wasn't lost in the pleasure at all. He knew exactly what he was doing. Sherlock deducted as soon as John dug a hand into those black locks of his and gave a firm tug. In retortion, Sherlock squeezed John as hard as he could through the difficulty of his belt, almost to the point of pain. John's hips buckled at that, tapping the fridge in his jerk. Sherlock only pressed into him tighter, allowing John to feel his hardness rubbing against his hip.

At some point, John had to pull away. He tore his lips away and sucked in air like he had just almost suffocated. The noises only got better then, nothing to block the grunts and the panting-such beautiful music. Sherlock added a good note by diving down to his neck and biting on the soft skin quickly; John half-gasped, half-cried out at the sudden shock.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's hand still played with him. Taking his nipple between his forefinger and thumb, Sherlock pulled on the senstitve part while simultaneously beginning to rub John's hard-on through his underwear. All the while, he kept up the bite, sucking and slightly knawing on the same spot until it became a harsh purple under the skin.

John liked it. He knew-He had always known. How John loved the pain, the danger.

As if to confirm it, John's hand fell from Sherlock's face to his own pants. When John started to undo his belt, Sherlock couldn't say he was completely surprised, but definitely delighted. He was a little stunned, however, when John grabbed the front of _his _pants after he had taken off his own belt.

Without the constriction, Sherlock was able to rip open John's fly and grab him more firmly, from a better angle, causing the blonde's hands to still as his body tightened and shuddered. As John got Sherlock's belt open and pants undone, Sherlock had successfully worked John's pants passed his hips and begun to work on his underwear.

There was only the beginning of a very breathy, shocked protest, "Sher-"

Sherlock yanked John off the fridge, entirely into his embrace. He kissed him again in the same motion, cutting John off once more. They were kissing faster now, lips tight, breathing hitched on each other's. Sherlock's hands now slide to John's arse, first cupping the cheeks suggestively, then full on groping.

The shear excitement, enough to make John utter a moan, was enough to wake him up as well.

He yanked his lips away once more, harder this time, and actually had to push Sherlock away from him-but only slightly. He did so just enough to make Sherlock pause in his attack.

"D-Did you sleep with her?" It came out very quickly, choked by pants and fogged up common sense.

Oh, it was so hard for Sherlock to surpress the urge to smile. John's jealousy was as obvious as a blue flame among the fire, the smallest, but fiercest.

He didn't answer the blonde. Instead, he yanked John's underwear down too quick for him to realize, and flipped him around in one smooth motion.

By the time John caught up with what was happening, facing the cupboards, hands on the counter, Sherlock had already dove into the fridge, pulled out whatever he needed, and uncapped it. Right as John looked over his shoulder to yell at the man, the cold, wet touch came to his arse.

Sherlock's fingers, coated in something thick but slick and cold, pressed right between his cheeks, rubbing his hole directly. The bottle was tossed onto the counter and somehow John couldn't process the familiar label he saw on it. Sherlock did **not **have jam on his fingers right now.

But it was so hard for John to begin an arguement when suddenly he was being pentrated, the tip of the thin finger slipping inside smoothly. The jam was sticky, but it eased Sherlock's finger inside gently, all at once. The slender digit invaded him so quickly, proving to John to be longer than he ever considered. The raw feeling of skin pressing against his insides struck something so hard in him that his whole being shuddered. The moan came out in a drawn-out choke when the second finger was added.

John didn't know what to do with himself. His cock was stuck between the silverware drawer. His body was constantly shivering, mind blank, hands clutching the counter, lungs so empty of air, heart racing-

He couldn't even see Sherlock's face anymore; the man was only touching him in two places; obviously two fingers were busy inside him, while the other hand held John's hips firmly in place. He desperately reached back and tried to keep his grip on Sherlock's wrist.

"Sherlock, se-seriously, did-Ah! Oh, you...prick-"

Sherlock finally smirked. He prepared John like some kind of expert, palm up, shoving the two fingers at a sharp upward angle, working the jam all around his insides. It was delicious to feel John clench around his fingers. The thought of it around his cock only made the need in him grow stronger, erection pushing hard through his underwear.

But even as he was panting and clenching and moaning, the tension in John's shoulder said it all. Sherlock could read John's body like a book, even through the sweatershirt he was so easy-so fascinating. He could tell everything-

And right now, his John was upset. Horny, excited and jealous, but upset. Concerned, confusion swelling up unwanted doubt. But then again, the confusion had worked entirely like Sherlock deducted, bringing out the need in John he's had all along.

In order to calm the storm, Sherlock gently pressed himself against John's back. He erased the space between them, keeping his fingers firmly inside the blonde, and wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him in place. Now John had straightened, not even realizing he had been hunched over the counter, squeezing right back into Sherlock's touch.

"I refused her," Sherlock spoke right into John's ear, and he felt something relax inside the smaller man. As a result, he kissed the back of John's neck and spoke against his skin, "It was only for the case. There was no need for distractions."

The words came to John from a distance. The pleasure was now beginning to numb everything. He still felt it-the doubt-but hearing Sherlock, feeling his fingers reach farther up inside him to the point of his knuckles almost entering, made everything even out. It felt good. Too good.

"Dis-Distrac-" John had to choke back the words as the third finger slipped inside him. The stretch of his skin was unfaimiliar; it burned if but slightly. And yet the pressure he felt from inside, the thickness of his fingers pushing deeper in him struck something so wild that John couldn't stand it. He moaned, hands clawing at the counter now, head dropping back. Sherlock's head was there instantly, nuzzling in the crook of it, tongue lapping up the sweat that began to line the nape of his neck. Feeling Sherlock's hair tickle his ear brought the form of words back to John. "Th-Then...what is t-this?"

Sherlock didn't even hesitate. He suddenly rammed all three fingers into John with sheer force, pressing far inside him, brushing his prostate so quickly-too quickly-it sparked in him, making John jump, giving a small shout. Sherlock's lips were right in his ear at the same moment, practically growling, "A neccessity."

The next thing John knew, he was strewn atop the kitchen table, legs spread wide over the edge, with Sherlock balls-deep inside him. John was on his back, something digging into his shoulder-probably a spoon-but he couldn't care less. The sweet pleasure of the cock inside him, moving so fast, so elegantly, had drawn all of John's attention. He probably wasn't even aware of how loud he was being, head back, mouth wide open as his moans echoed around the tiny kitchen.

Sherlock was hovering over the smaller man, holding his thighs firmly apart as he scooped his hips up and out faster and faster. John's legs were around his waist, but only his ankles were crossed, too weak, too far gone to concentrate on keeping them up. It was too good-too hot-too delicious.

The pleasure hit John right in the gut, pooling lower with every thrust, sparking brighter with every slap of their skin. Sherlock could feel John tightening around him-God it was even better than Sherlock deducted, hot enough to melt him, tight enough to hurt, but oh how good the pain was. The cinching in his balls was all too familiar. Too soon. Not enough.

Sherlock slowed his pace instantly, striking a gasp from the blonde underneath him. John breathed deeper then, making him realize how hard he had been panting for the first while they'd been fucking. His back immediately arched up as Sherlock slowly drew himself out, only to piston back inside, and slowly retreat again. The stimulation wasn't enough-nice, steady, leveling out the pleasure enough to fully course through every inch of John's body-but not enough. He was already so close, cock hard and fit to burst at the first touch. He needed it-He needed Sherlock-Right now. Sherlock-

"I'm right here, John."

It took John a long moment to realize had had spoken aloud.

After having his eyes clenched shut for most of the time, John finally opened them to see Sherlock's gaze firmly transfixed on him. The detective grabbed John from under the knees and pushed his legs up, shifting John so his lower back was raised slightly and increasing the pressure of the cock inside him. John couldn't hold back the moan, especially knowing that those dark eyes alone were pinning him down to the table. Sherlock started thrusting again, but very shallowly, mainly rubbing the head of his cock against John's prostate, causing jolts of pleasure to pierce John to the core, but not enough to make him climax, forcing his attention on the voice above him.

"I thought about you," Sherlock said cooly. He was breathless, panting between sentences, and yet he still sounded so smug. "Every second with her, I was with you. It's always been you, John."

Sherlock gave John a hard thrust then, making John drop his head, smacking it against the table. The pain went completely unnoticed in John's mind at the rythmic stabs he was eagerly accepting. "Oh-Ah! You-You-Oh!"

His hands reached down and didn't stop groping around until he found Sherlock's hands. Sherlock used one hand to drag John's body closer to the edge of the table, then did as John wanted and grabbed his hand. He interlaced their fingers and pressed it against the table. Then the detective laid himself on top of John, pushing inside him as deep as possible, making John wrap his legs fully around Sherlock's waist.

"Since day one, John. Always been you. No one else...can ever strike me like you do." To emphasize, Sherlock started rocking into John, scooping his hips in and out at an angle, cauisng everything in John to writhe at the feeling. "As for you...I'm the only one who can satisfy you." Sherlock dug his face into the crook of John's neck, speaking against his throat. "The danger, the jealousy-it fuels you, John. Just as it does me... No one else. No one."

As Sherlock spoke, his thrusts had picked up speed. By the time he had finished speaking, he was going even faster than when they started, striking John so much that he couldn't even gasp or moan-he choked on his breath, laying there with his head tilted back, mouth agap. He finally groaned and that released a whole plethera of delicious noises. Sherlock held John by the hips, centering all his attention there, using all his weight, all his strength to pound inside the smaller man.

It was like this-arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck, legs around his waist, that made John come without even being properly touched. He was being rammed into the wood, harshly, each thrust lighting him up inside, far beyond the point of control. He clenched around Sherlock as he came, tightening, jerking, and moaning as it happened. Sherlock rode him through it, keeping up his speed despite how tight John was squeezing him. Yet, watching John cum between them, feeling the liquid hit him in the chest, John spasming around his cock, it didn't take long for Sherlock to follow along, thrusting all the way out and back in with long, sharp thrusts, not unsheathing himself from John until he was completely unloaded inside the motlen insides of John.

Sherlock collapsed on top of John, limbs growing heavy, mind sluggish. John didn't protest, so Sherlock stayed still. Slowly, John's hands ran up Sherlock's back along sweaty skin, up to the back of his neck, till it reached his hair. Sherlock admired the soothing motion of John touching them as their pulses slowed, until the same grip yanked on his hair.

"Don't see her anymore."

Sherlock couldn't supress the smile anymore. He didn't answer his doctor. Instead, he merely leaned up and kissed him.

**I hate the beginning I made for this, I wanted it to come out better but yeah. Oh well. just shut up and enjoy the hot butt sex X/P**

**For the Woman I Love Most.**

**-ZVA**

**It's perfect!**


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